You know you’re old when…
by Natasha Josefowitz, Ph.D.
LA JOLLA, California–The invitation came in the mail. The Village News office party. There was an address I did not recognize, but then I had not been to their office.
Remembering office holiday parties past, glass of wine in hand, everyone dressed up and chatting quietly around the well-stocked buffet table. I put on my black suit and white, sparkling sweater hoping that I would look appropriately dressed. Jewelry, high-heeled
shoes, purse, I was ready.
The editor, Anne Terhune, had kindly suggested that one of the young reporters, Adriene, could pick me up as I don’t drive at night anymore. Adriene arrived with her boyfriend, who drove. He’s doing graduate work at UCSD and we had a lively conversation in the car. He left us off downtown in front of an unlikely looking office establishment that had a doorman checking people in. I thought he gave me a strange look. As soon as I walked in, I knew why—I entered another world, one I’m not familiar with.
I saw young people in torn jeans sitting on stools around small tables watching football on large screens lining the room. They were all yelling—where was I?—but this was not where the office party was being held. We went upstairs, then downstairs, then into another room. This time it was a bowling alley lined with the same televisions showing the same football game and that crowd seemed similarly excited.
I was asked who I was rooting for—I asked who was playing and that person did not pursue my answer. Someone wanted to know if I wanted bowling shoes. I declined.
Thank goodness Charlene Baldridge, the theater critic, was there. We huddled together—she in her seventies and me in my eighties— marveling at the scantily dressed or blue-jeaned crowd of young people doing high fives with every strike.
A waiter handed me a couple of tickets—for what? I enquired. For drinks, I was told. I got a cranberry juice and checked out the buffet table—turkey, string beans, mashed potatoes, salad. Charlene and I ate, grateful to have a bench to sit on, most people were standing.
Everyone seemed to know one another and were having a wonderful time. Anne Terhune kept getting strikes. Her husband, Brian, sat with us and the three of us duly admired and clapped every one of the strikes. I tried talking to her about my columns—you guessed it— this was not the right venue.
I looked for Adriene and said I really wanted to take a cab home. She insisted that they were also ready to go as they were going to another party. What I kept wondering on my way home: what other happenings, events, parties were going on in my city about whose existence I knew nothing.
The bowling party was a grand idea for the Village News staff. It was obvious how much fun they were having and it was fun for me to see young people so enthusiastic, but it also reminded me of how far removed my generation is from today’s youth—I could be these kids’ great-grandmother. It made me a bit wistful and wished I had donned those bowling shoes and thrown a ball down that shiny lane.
Maybe next year, if I wear jeans.
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Josefowitz is a freelance writer based in La Jolla, California. This column appeared previously in the La Jolla Village Voice
